Okay, great

Look, I’m trying to be positive; truly I am. But dealing with recruiters just kind of wears you down. (And it’s not just me. I could give you lots of stories told to me by others looking for work here in the Valley They Call Silicon.)

So let me introduce you to my new code, via a couple of memes:

But when—for the moment and for so very many reasons—you cannot say what is beating on the back of your incisors trying to escape your mouth:

Over and out.

The best mistakes we know how to make

I recently read How Can We Keep from Singing: Music and the Passionate Life, by Joan Oliver Goldsmith. Goldsmith is a member of the Minnesota Chorale, a truly amateur group in the sense of doing something fine purely for the love of it. She uses various musical concepts as the framework for discussing life itself, and it resonated with me.

In the chapter titled “Creativity’s Compost”, Goldsmith takes on mistakes.

“What kinds of mistakes do you make? Do you err on the side of jumping into possibility when life beckons? Or do you hold back until conditions are definitely favorable? Are you more afraid of not following your heart’s dream or spending your old age bagging groceries?”

From those questions she goes on to discuss how businesses approach mistakes—whether they welcome and learn from them, or fear bagging groceries. The example she chooses, being in Minnesota, is from 3M Corporation:

“A productive mistake is: (1) made in the service of mission and vision; (2) acknowledged as a mistake; (3) learned from; (4) considered valuable; (5) shared for the benefit of all.”

(I have to say that, here in the Valley They Call Silicon, a lot of disruptive game-changing execs talk about innovation a lot, and hit hard on how they want employees to be creative risk-takers. But when you ask them for examples of how they as a company learn from mistakes, you get nothing but caffeine-charged crickets.)

Then she brings it back to the personal level:

“In this life we make the best mistakes we know how to make. Then, with any luck, we go out and make new ones. I don’t make mistakes when I watch TV or take a walk. These activities are pleasant, restful. But I could not make a life of them. After all, the easiest way to avoid wrong notes is to never open your mouth and sing. What a mistake that would be.”

I’ve made so many mistakes in my life; you know—the ones that still make you cringe decades later. And I’ve gone through the walking-and-reading retreat periods; I know exactly what Goldsmith is talking about. I know from personal experience that it can be very risky to open your mouth and sing, but worrying about bagging groceries is worse.  

Bubble relief

Well, there’s good news on the Bubble Wrap front. Sort of.

(And if you didn’t know there’s a Bubble Wrap front, there is, if you’re one of the 99.932% of humanity who can’t resist popping the cells of the packing material. Of the people who know about Bubble Wrap, of course.)

It came to my attention after yesterday’s post that some benevolent benefactor has given us Virtual Bubble Wrap.

And if that’s not enough to pull you back from the edge, there’s an Insane Version of Virtual Bubble Wrap, with extra-special sound effects, on the same site.

Plus—you can get it for your Android device. But apparently not iOS. Probably on account of the Flash thing.

In any case—crank up the volume when you click on the bubbles. If you’re at work, on the train or in the library, use headphones.

You’re welcome.

Wrapping it up

We learned last month that the Product Formerly Known as Bubble Wrap is being “improved” and that we, the paying consumer, will no longer be able to pop the bubbles. Because there won’t be any.

So on one of my walks around the Valley They Call Silicon recently, when I spied this in someone’s trash, I almost snatched it for possible sale on eBay:

I didn’t, though. I just don’t have that kind of entrepreneurial drive.

Gratitude Monday: Unasked and unlooked for

On my Sunday morning exercise circuits, I like to add in walking the labyrinth at what I refer to as the Triune Church(es) of the Valley They Call Silicon.

  

Dunno whether the rock-lined Cretan-style labyrinth was an ecumenical project, or whether the Methodists, the Lutherans or the, uh, Very Gooders took point, but I’m glad it’s there.

(It’s kind of interesting to me that they didn’t follow the Chartres style, but this one is a lot easier to install, I’m guessing. Also, perhaps there was disagreement amongst the three congregations as to whether cruciform represented something too close to Papacy and this was determined to be non-denominational and therefore acceptable to all.)

Breaking my brisk pace to follow the mini-pilgrim path is both a physical and metaphorical pulling away for me. I turn off my pod and just walk the path in brain-neutral, instead of my usual mental speed-hopping. Yesterday I was focusing on a part of a prayer I’ve been practicing for a few days, on graces that have come “unasked and unlooked for” in my life.

There are a lot of those, of course, but a lot of the time I’m just not paying attention. So I was focusing on being open to them: to seeing them and hearing them when they appear, even unasked or unlooked for.

Well, as I was approaching one of the turns, I heard the unmistakable honking of Canada geese, and at the turn I looked up to watch a V-formation of maybe 15 of them flying fairly low overhead in front of me. As they passed from left to right, I heard a couple of honks off to the left, behind a tree. “Poky little gosling,” I thought (interrupting my meditative focus, to be sure). And then there appeared a much smaller formation—perhaps half as many—just flapping and honking, like they were doing their very-goose-best to catch up.

It was so quiet in the pre-0700 Sunday air, and they were so low, that I realized I could hear their wings beating. I’ve never heard that before, that whap-whap-whap-whap sound, multiplied by seven or eight sets of wings.

What a joyful thing—completely unexpected, and in the normal course of life around here, mostly impossible. The quiet around me, the quiet in myself, the initial squadron alerting me to their presence and the low formation of the hurry-uppers all came together to give me those beautiful moments, before everything returned to “normal”.

Now, I do not ordinarily find Canada geese charming. They’re an invasive species, taking over whatever environment they settle into, and you do not ever want them congregating anywhere you need to be walking or playing. (The phrase “crap through a goose” doesn’t even begin to approach the enormity of their output.)

But yesterday I was extremely grateful that they appeared so serendipitously, unasked and unlooked for, preparing me for the week ahead.

Push the little red button

Oh my word—those totes cray-cray Kiwis are at it again. I’ve reported before on Air New Zealand’s attention-getting approach to airline safety spiels. From Richard Simmons to hobbits, they know how to make a video.  

Well, they are not resting on their laurels. No, we’ve moved from orcs to Men in Black:

I have to say that I’m not enthralled by this iteration; I prefer Middle Earth. But I do purely admire their gumption. And their video-making budget. Nothing cheap about these guys.

Statement of intent

As you know, I’ve only seen two [Someone] for President yard signs, here in the Valley They Call Silicon. For the election that doesn’t take place for another 14.5 months.

And here’s the only car so far with 2016 bumper stickers on it:

To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure what it means. Possibly either several Democrats in the household; or multiple personality disorder.

(It was a dual-Prius family, if that’s any indicator.)

Poli-sigh

For at least the last six months politicians have been on the campaign trail for the presidential election that won’t take place until November next year, so I guess it shouldn’t surprise me to find some political signs in yards of the Valley They Call Silicon.

I mean—we appear to be entering the Age of Perpetual Electioneering, which is one of the strongest arguments around for streaming media that allows you to shut that posturing out.

However, I’m a little surprised that, so far, these are the only two I’ve seen:

Do Republicans not want to shell out for signage until the field is narrowed down to single digits?

PULEEZE check it out

Apparently I’m not done harping on the Santa Clara County Library District’s (SCCLD) notion of user interface for their online catalog. Because their product managers and UX designers just keep on giving me harp material.

My days of browsing in library stacks are largely over, for a number of reasons. My typical pattern is to hear about a book, or read a review, go to a library’s website, and (if they have it) put it on hold. When it becomes available, I borrow it. Sometimes I read reviews at the time of publication, and if I don’t reserve the book then, I’ll forget about it by the time it hits the SCCLD’s shelves. It’s just easier.

(Yeah, I could make a list. But then I’d have to keep track of it somewhere. Not happening.)

I’ve already told you about their kludgy interface—with the application just hanging like it can’t decide whether to grant your impertinent request or not. They’ve apparently fixed that, because it now completes the action and gives you an acknowledgement message.

Well, except that the other day this is what I got:

I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong, and that error message is not particularly informative.

So when I went to the Cupertino branch to pick up some materials on hold, I asked the guy at the circulation desk what gives. And it turns out that library patrons are limited to a maximum of 12 holds at a time. (You can check out boatloads of books, but only have 12 holds in the system.) Only when I either cancel a hold or check out something that’s become available can I put another item on hold.

Well, okay, fine.

But why could they not word their error message to tell me that? How hard is it to say, “You’ve reached the maximum number of holds allowed”? Why cite some mysterious “problem”, and tell me to “see a librarian”? A librarian can’t help, unless s/he can override their system.

And, in fact, a librarian is a highly-educated person who should be dealing with matters a lot more human than looking up my account to try to decipher something that sloppy technocrats slapped up there because they couldn’t be bothered to program in useful messaging.

IMHO.

Gratitude Monday: Ice cubes and air conditioning

A while ago friends went on a trip to Budapest, Vienna and Munich. It was great following their journey, with photos of castles and meals. But something perhaps a little mundane struck me about the reportage.

On their return to Virginia, one posted to Facebook that she was happy to be back in the land of ice cubes and air conditioning.

To which I say, amen.

I’ve posted before about being grateful for the civic institutions that ensure that pretty much all of us in the United States (except in extraordinary circumstances like the wake of natural disasters) do not worry about water-borne diseases because we have potable water delivered to the insides of our homes.

The combination of indoor plumbing and taxpayer-supported water districts is not enjoyed by large parts of the world’s population. And I know this because I’ve lived in a place that did not.

I realize that not having air conditioning and ice cubes is more of a first-world problem than the potential for cholera or malaria in my fruit punch (which I used to make to disguise the taste and brown color of the water purification tablets). But I’ve also lived in a place where both are considered surplus to requirements, and at times I struggled with that.

I come from Los Angeles, where anything older than 20 years is marked for destruction and replacement. So structures that have been around for centuries are pretty impressive to me. But it’s one thing to admire them and another entirely to try to sleep through an August night in a fourth-floor London flat with no air stirring and nothing but drunken pub-goers outside to distract you from your thoughts.

Or a hotel room in Antwerp, or Bayeux, or anywhere in Europe, really.

I mean, it’s like those Euros are waiting another century or so to see if this air conditioning thing will outlive the fad stage.

(Also—what is it with window screens? Why do they not put screens on their windows so you can at least stay on the opposite side from flying insects? If you’re not going to invest in AC, put up a few screens, will you?)

A trip in July to Vienna was particularly wonder-provoking. I stayed at the K+K Hotel Palais, a four-star jobber. There was a window AC unit in the guest room, but nothing in any of the public places—lobby, breakfast room, bar, corridors. So I did no lollygagging anywhere there after breakfast time.

Also—you’ll perhaps recall the international legal-moral fracas about the return of a Klimt painting, “Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer”? It was looted by the Nazis and kept by the Austrian government for decades after World War II, until they finally were forced to give it back to the remaining Bloch-Bauer heir in 2006. I was over the moon when Maria Altmann won her case against the Austrians because they’d been displaying the painting in the Belvedere Gallery (one of the Hapsburg palaces with which Vienna is littered)—and it was not air conditioned.

They had twelve thousand signs warning you to keep off the grass outside, and they threw a hissy fit about the size of my shoulder bag (which held three cameras, a journal and my AmEx card), but they had all those amazing works of art in the Baroque equivalent of a sauna. It seemed to me that for that reason alone, the entire contents of that palace should have been trucked somewhere with climate control.

As for ice cubes—how on earth are you supposed to make a decent cocktail without them? Or have iced tea? Or chill your bottle of Bolly?

The phenomenon was most interesting in the UK. I’d go into a pub, and if I wasn’t drinking bitter for some reason, I’d order a Diet Coke or a mineral water. The barman would twig to my accent and ask me slowly and carefully, “Do you want ice in that?”

When I’d allow as to how I would indeed like ice in my drink (which would have been in a mini-bottle sitting on a shelf, not in a refrigerator), he’d ceremoniously open an ice bucket, withdraw one or two cubes, and drop it/them into a glass. The liquid would go in and he’d consider it a job well done.

After a while I just ordered a [whatever] and a glass full of ice on the side. Those bottles of soda were still stingy, but at least I’d get my drink cold.

Maybe eight or ten years ago the Wall Street Journal ran a story about how commercial-grade ice-making machines were beginning to sell across the continent. Some American was breaking into the market big-time by selling Hoshizakis (I think).

But, if my friend’s heartfelt first words on landing at Dulles are any guide, there’s still room to grow in their use.

So, as I sit here in a third-floor flat in the Valley They Call Silicon, where temps outside are in the 90s, I am very grateful indeed that my 20-year-old AC unit is cranking away to make it 82 degrees inside, and I’m swilling glasses of iced tea, which I periodically top up from the automatic ice-maker/dispenser in the refrigerator.